


Intrusive Thoughts

by Anonymous



Category: no - Fandom
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, You Have Been Warned, this is singlehandedly the worst thing ive written in my entire life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: wilbur has sexual intrusive thoughts and can't handle themif you found this, you looked for it
Relationships: Wilbur Soot/TommyInnit
Comments: 44
Kudos: 204
Collections: Anonymous





	Intrusive Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER AND CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> This is going to be your only warning, what you're about to read contains:
> 
> Sexual themes and descriptions  
> Graphic explanations of sexual and paedophilic intrusive thoughts  
> Graphic explanations of self harm / self injurious behavior  
> Self hatred  
> Flashbacks of sexual assault and incest  
> Suicide
> 
> If any of these things may harm you, I encourage you to click off now.
> 
> For those of you sick fuckers who aren't triggered by anything, like myself, enjoy I guess.

Wilbur is jerking off.

That's one way to start this story.

It's Tuesday night and Wilbur is in bed, strewn across the blankets, a proper mess. He's dressed in only a teal jumper, and his legs have fallen open, one kicked out and the other bent at the knee. His head is tilted back in a silent moan as he strokes himself.

It's a sight to behold, the way his muscles tense under sweat slicked skin, the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows hard, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. He lightly traces his fingers along the exposed flesh of his stomach, shivering.

He's close, he can feel it. His climax is quickly approaching, and his mind is so clouded with lust that all he can do is _whimper_. He bucks up into his fist, chasing his orgasm.

And then it goes downhill, and it happens so fast that Wilbur doesn't have time to process it until it's too late.

An image, one he _doesn't_ want to be seeing, flashes into his mind. It's an image of a familiar blond boy on his knees in front of him, lips stretched around his cock. It's an image that has his toes curling in pleasure, yet his gut twisting in guilt.

As quick as it had appeared, the image leaves. It fades from his mind and is quickly replaced by shock and disgust.

Wilbur's eyes fly open, wide in horror. As the realization of what he has just thought of, while jerking off nonetheless, settles in. 

_It's an intrusive thought, it's just an intrusive thought. Push it away. Think about something else. Go do something else. Forget about this. And for the love of god get your damned hand off of your-_

His heart drops in his chest, and that's when he realises: he's still fucking touching himself, and he should absolutely _not_ be touching himself right now. Not after thinking about that. That- that's not right. That's vile. That's sick. He's sick.

But it's too late, he couldn't stop himself even if he tried. His own touch feels so electrifyingly good, the hand wrapped around his feverish skin is delicious, and Wilbur has never been good at self control. Oh no, it's too late as he spills across his fingers, hips stuttering as he groans low in his throat.

He blinks up at the ceiling, chest heaving with the intensity of his orgasm. His ears are ringing, and he briefly wonders if death would be more welcoming than the horrible emotions he's feeling right now. He sucks in a gasping breath, mind reeling.

It's only now that the reality of the situation sinks in completely. Tendrils of shame wrapping around his lungs, squeezing any bit of oxygen out. Guilt is seeping into every fiber of his being, drowning him, and his mind only screams one thing.

_Disgusting disgusting disgusting_

Wilbur sits up, the guilt settling heavy in his stomach. He pulls on his boxers, grabbing a tissue to wipe his release from his hand. He makes a promise to himself that he will never think of this again.

He goes to grab his phone, an attempt to distract himself from the thoughts, but his latest notification is one saying Tommy's gone live, and the guilt multiplies tenfold, nausea swimming in his gut.

He stumbles to the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before he's puking, gagging and retching up bile, along with the small amount of food that had been in his stomach.

He sobs openly, tears dripping down his face, falling into the toilet and mixing with his vomit in a disgusting display of shame.

He dry heaves a bit more, body shaking with the force of his sobs. He flushes the toilet, collapsing against the wall.

_I'm a monster. I deserve to be punished._

And punishment he will receive.

Once he collects himself, he's moving sluggishly for the medicine cabinet, pushing stuff about until he finds what he's looking for.

It's a safety razor, the metal kind you pop a disposable blade in, and when he twists the handle to reveal the sliver of metal, he knows this is what he deserves.

His fingers shake as he takes the blade from his place in the razor, turning the metal over in his hand. He presses his thumb to the edge of it, wincing when blood bubbles to the surface of his finger.

He's quick to hike up the hem of his jumper, pushing the waistband of his boxers down just a few inches. His hip is marred with old scars, the newest ones well over 5 years old. He hasn't done this in quite some time.

In just a few seconds, 5 years clean is reset to 0 seconds, and there's 6 small gashes on his hip. He doesn't even care that he's thrown away 5 years. This is necessary, he can't go around under the impression that these thoughts will go unpunished.

* * *

The issue is that now that he's trying his hardest to prevent these thoughts, he can't stop thinking them. It seems this one intrusive thought has opened a floodgate for all the rest, and he hates it.

He wakes up with a hard-on the next morning, and can't bring himself to do anything about it. If he touches himself, he risks having some not so nice thoughts, thoughts he'd rather avoid.

So he takes a cold shower, refuses to even look at his own body, let alone touch it. Refuses to pleasure himself. He doesn't deserve it.

On Friday he walks past a mirror in his hallway, and is brought to a standstill. His own tired, empty eyes stare back at him, and his mind supplies a singular word.

_Paedophile_.

On Monday he's in a Discord call, with Phil, Quackity, and Tommy. They're filming a mod video, and he can handle it. He can handle this. The video is recorded without issue, and he's almost proud of himself for not having a single bad thought.

_Yet_.

He cannot handle this, he quickly realises. The video is done being filmed, and it's just Phil and Tommy in the call with him now. Which would have been fine, had Phil not pushed the others to turn on their cameras.

It's not like Phil has any ill intent. There's no way he could possibly know how bad this could go for Wilbur, he just wants to hang out with his friends.

But it'll be okay, Wilbur thinks as he switches on his camera, it's not like anyone notices the way he flinches when Tommy turns on his. He doesn't even notice Phil turning his own on.

It's fine for the first few minutes, until he lets his guard down.

He doesn't mean for his vision to trail to Tommy's lips, but it does, and he has to use all his willpower to keep his composure. It's scarily easy to pretend he's not staring at his friends lips.

The next intrusive thought hits him like a truck, and he goes dizzy.

_A man's lips are similar in colour to the head of his penis._

It's just a stupid thing he'd read once, and he doesn't even know if it's true, but now he's mentally picturing an image even worse than the one he'd pictured on Tuesday.

A hard, leaking cock, flushed the same pretty pink as Tommy's lips.

His breath catches in his throat at the imagery, eyes widening in dread, and _shit_ , Phil and Tommy both pause.

"You alright there Will?" Tommy asks, and Wilbur's fingers itch to create new scars on his hip as punishment. He is most definitely not alright.

"Mhmm." Wilbur blinks, finally dragging his eyes away from the boy's lips. The teens eyebrows are knit together in concern, and it makes Wilbur sick. 

_He's worried about me, and I'm sitting there thinking about- oh I am just horrid._

"I'm gonna go." He says flatly, clicking off the call before either of the two can protest.

Tears are burning his eyes, and he bites his tongue because _he has no right to cry_. He just needs to go to sleep and forget about this. He shifts, moving to leave his chair, when he realizes he's _hard_.

_Holy fuck. This is bad. This is worse than I thought. This is- this is horrible. I'm sick. I need help. I actually need therapy. I'm a danger to others. I'm going to hell. I'm a monster._

He freezes, and panic bubbles up even more now. _I'm a monster, I'm a monster, I'm a monster._ And he can't handle it anymore, he needs to hurt himself, but can't move.

In a split second decision he raises a shaking fist, bringing it down harshly to collide with the side of his head. It fucking hurts, a dull ache settling in the back of his skull. He does it again, and this time his other arm snakes up to drag his nails across his forearm.

He's crying now, long given up on holding back his tears. His left hand is tugging his hair, fingers tangled in the brown unkempt curls. His right hand is scratching, nails creating a bloodied mess on his left arm.

His throat hurts from the force of his sobs, and when he goes to wipe his tears he only succeeds in smearing his own blood across his face. 

He brings his knees to his chest, curling his arms around himself in an attempt to make himself as small as possible. Struggling to keep his panic attack at bay, he decides he needs to take some precautions, make some rules for himself.

The first rule being to avoid Tommy as much as possible, which is easier said than done, but a quick message to the Dream SMP discord will be able to buy him a week or two of solitude to think.

He hasn't been particularly involved in the SMP recently, but it's the only server that has all of the online friends he needs to notify of his 'break from social media' in it.

With shaking hands he grabs his phone, typing a message to the discord. He can't be bothered to turn his computer back on.

**Wilbur | 8:26pm**

_Hey, I'm gonna be taking a little break from social media for my mental health, like any and all social media. I probably won't be replying to messages or talking to anyone for a couple weeks so if I ignore anyone that's why. See ya guys_

The thing is, he's not taking a break from social media. He'll be online, he just won't talk to anyone, _especially_ not Tommy, and Tommy will be none the wiser that Wilbur is purposefully ignoring him.

A few replies flood in, a handful of friends wishing him well with his mental health, and lord does he need it. He's silently thankful that his friends assume he's talking about anxiety.

He's about to close out of discord when, just his luck, Tommy messages him. He clicks on it without thinking, cursing at himself for doing so.

It's a simple message, kind and caring.

**Tommy | 8:31pm**

_Take care of yourself big man._

Wilbur finds himself smiling at the message for a split second, mind briefly devoid of the wretched thoughts, he can only feel comforted by his best friend's words.

His smile falters, and his heart drops. He can't let himself be sappy right now, not when he's about to do a fucking _trial run_ of not being the boys friend.

**Wilbur | 8:32pm**

_Thanks, will do_

He closes out of discord now, muting his notifications from Tommy's messages before doing so.

Now for rule two.

Rule two being, no going outside.

Yeah, it's a bit dramatic, but Wilbur honestly doesn't know if he can trust himself. He can only imagine how horrible he'd feel if he were to see a child in public, and think about-

Nope, absolutely no going outside. His stomach hurts at the mere idea of possibly thinking these things in public, and he doesn't know what he'll do to himself if it does happen.

Wilbur does, in fact, know what he'll do to himself if it happens. He'll kill himself, plain and simple. 

Rule three is easy, a rule he's been following since the intrusive thoughts began.

Not a singular vile thought goes unpunished. If he thinks it, he must hurt himself as punishment, easy.

* * *

The worst thing, Wilbur realises after 11 days of his 'break, is that it _worked_. Now that he's stopped talking to Tommy, the thoughts have dwindled away until they were gone completely, which would be good, except this means...

This means if he starts talking to Tommy again, the thoughts will just come back, and he can't risk the thoughts coming back. This leaves him with only one solution, a solution he doesn't want. 

He has to cut Tommy out of his life.

It's not what he had wanted to happen, he was hoping there'd be some other option, an option to get rid of the thoughts _and_ stay friends with Tommy, but there isn't.

He has two choices, stay friends with him and suffer, or stop being his friend and have peace.

He weighs his options, listing the pros and cons to himself, though he already knows which option he will choose.

**Stay friends with Tommy:**

Pros: he's my best friend & brother, makes me happy to talk to

Cons: bad thoughts, might hurt him, will hurt myself, I'll continue being a horrible person

**Cut Tommy off:**

Pros: he'll be safe from me, bad thoughts will stop, I won't be a horrible person

Cons: it'll make him sad, it'll make me sad

He knows he has to do it, it's the obvious answer, but _hell_ is it going to be painful.

Pain is worth Tommy's safety though, and he's not safe being friends with Wilbur.

A tear drips down Wilbur's face.

_I'm unsafe._

* * *

On the 13th day of his break, Wilbur sits down in front of his computer, ready (not ready at all) to tell Tommy he can't be his friend anymore.

This is gonna suck.

He clicks the call button before he can back out, settling into his chair and pulling the blanket that's wrapped around his shoulders a bit tighter, as if the thin grey fabric will protect him.

The call picks up on the fourth ring, and he's met with the sight of Tommy sitting at his desk, smiling.

"Wilbur! Ayup, you doing better?" He asks, leaning back and pushing his hair out of his face. He swivels his chair from side to side, waiting for Wilburs response.

_His smile is pretty. His hair is so pretty, I want to pull on it while-_

Wilbur purses his lips, pushing the thoughts from his brain. That's 5 cuts later.

"Turn off your camera." He says numbly.

"Wh- okay?" Tommy replies, albeit confused, leaning forward to shut his camera off.

Wilburs camera is still on, and he can't even bring himself to look up at it when he speaks, his eyes are focused where he taps his fingers on the edge of his desk.

"We can't be friends." The words slip past his lips, hanging heavy in the air.

_Way to put it bluntly._

And Tommy _laughs_ , unsure, but too scared to assume Wilburs words are anything but a joke.

"I'm serious Tom." Wilbur says, frowning and bringing his tapping fingers to a stop. His nails dig into the wooden desk.

Tommy's laughter comes to a halt, and there's a shaky inhale that has Wilburs heart breaking in two.

"W-what?" The teen sounds so broken, so sad, and Wilbur wants to apologise, tell him it is a joke, but he can't, and it's not.

"What the hell do you-" Tommy's voice breaks at the end, and all Wilbur can feel is _guilt guilt guilt_. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," He sighs, bringing his hand to his mouth to bite at his fingernail, an anxious habit he thought he'd gotten rid of. "I mean I can't be your friend anymore."

It's silent for a moment, and the man wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

"Why?" Comes Tommy's reply, and Wilbur doesn't think he's ever heard the boy sound so _small_.

"It just- it's better this way." He offers, wincing at his own words. It's a lame excuse and he knows it, but he has no other explanation.

"Oh that's _bullshit_." Tommy snaps, sounding close to tears now, and Wilbur can only blink up at his camera in shock. "How can you just not want to be friends anymore? I thought we were practically brothers!"

Something dark coils it's way around Wilburs heart, but when he opens his mouth to reply, Tommy speaks again.

"I'm your _little brother_ , Will." 

_'You're my little brother, Will, so do me this favour now, will ya?'_

_There's hands roaming his body, and his brother is manhandling his clothes off._

_'C'mon, be a good boy.' Evan's lips twist into a sickening grin, dragging Wilbur's hand to rest on the bulge in his underwear._

_'It's okay, yaknow dad did it with me, it's normal.'_

_Wilbur flinches when the older boy presses their lips together, tongue slipping into Wilburs mouth as he rolls his hips against the boy's hand._

_He pulls back, cringing._

_"Ev- Evan stop." He pleads, shoving weakly at the boy._

_His brother's hand closes around his neck, pinning him to the wall._

_'Shut the fuck up, kid.' He snarls, words dripping with venom._

_'I'm gonna fuck you, and you're gonna take it.'_

_He's being spun around, shoved unceremoniously onto the bed, before Evan is climbing on top of him._

"I _refuse_ to continue this fucking cycle!" Wilbur blurts, slamming his fist down on the desk. His eyes are wild with fear, brimmed with tears.

It's quiet, scarily so, and Tommy's camera turns back on.

The look on Tommy's face is, well it's a lot. He looks confused, scared, hurt, and worried all at once.

And he's _crying_.

_I made him cry._

"Wilby, what the fuck are you talking about?" Tommy asks, concern evident in his voice. "Are you okay?"

Wilbur collapses back into his chair, sucking in a shaky breath and scrubbing a hand over his teary eyes.

"You're not my little brother." Is a he can say, before leaving the call. 

* * *

The 5 cuts he'd promised himself turn into 10, and then 15 when he can't stop the intrusive thoughts once more.

He cries, tugging at his hair. His breathing is coming out in uneven gasps, and he can't think properly.

This was meant to stop the thoughts, not amplify them.

_Wasn't he so beautiful when he cried? Wouldn't it be wonderful to fuck him while he sobs, begging for you to stop?_

Wilbur screams, loud and broken, his throat hurts and he just sobs harder, screaming again. _Shame shame shame shame shame._

His fingers fumble for the discarded razor blade, picking it up off the floor and yanking up his sleeves so quick he fears the fabric may tear. 

He grips the blade in his shaking hand, bringing it down to press just under the inside of his elbow.

In one swipe he creates a vertical gash that goes all the way to his wrist, it _stings,_ the skin splitting apart and blood pouring out.

He presses the blade into his other hand, repeating the motion on his other arm. 

This time the cut is jagged and not as deep, as he's losing blood, along with the mobility of his arm. It may not be as deep, but it's _enough_.

He knows it's enough as blood flows from each of his wrists, blade falling to the bathroom tile with a clatter, vision dancing with black dots.

It's enough to kill him, and a small smile graces his lips when he realises.

Eventually the blood stops flowing from his wrists, he exhales a breath and never inhales, heart coming to a stop.

He's free from the horrible intrusive thoughts.

But even in the afterlife, God must have a vendetta against Will.

The kid comes to his fucking funeral.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going straight to hell.
> 
> It's okay, you are too. ;)


End file.
